Lucky Break
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: A promise is a promise.


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's Notes:** The missing scene challenge goes on, with this week's episode being season one, number ten: "Hotshoes".

One of Mark's old racing buddies tags the wall and breaks a leg only a few days before a big race at Riverside. Out of commission, he suggests Mark take his place as driver for the Denco racing team, which is poised to win the championship. It's the break of a lifetime for Mark, but first he has to convince Hardcastle to give his okay.

This story follows on after "Job Description".

The first three lines of dialogue are borrowed from canon.

**Lucky Break**

by L.M. Lewis

The discussion at the breakfast table wasn't going all that well. Sarah had come down hard on the side of safe and sane driving. Mark wasn't sure how much sway she had with the judge when it came to stuff like this but she was solid and immovable in her notion that his duties as a handyman were more important than a chance to blow the doors off the competition at Riverside.

He didn't argue with her. He didn't try to explain that he could hire a handyman for a _year _with what he'd make at Riverside in just the upcoming weekend if he pulled off a win. He'd already told Hardcastle, just a few days ago, that racing really hadn't been about the money. He even thought he believed that now.

He switched his attention to the judge. He was nodding and agreeing with Sarah—always a bad sign when those two closed ranks and presented a united front. But hadn't the man promised he would at least _think_ about it if this very situation arose?

Mark didn't bring that up directly. Instead he pleaded his case in the simplest way he knew how.

"I want this one, Milt."

It was pretty chancy, using that unfamiliarly familiar form of address, but it had gotten the man's attention, and he didn't bridle at it--possibly a good sign.

What Hardcastle said next was an even more hopeful indicator.

"Do you think you could win it?"

Mark didn't hesitate. "If I didn't think I could win it, I wouldn't have asked you."

He got no answer to that. The judge went right on cutting up his sausages, with a casual frown that might have meant anything from _Hell, no_, to _I'll think about it_.

00000

The kid had the good sense to let it rest after that. He even hustled through the rest of his breakfast and headed off to tackle the tasks that Sarah had laid out for him that morning. The judge had a sudden loopy mental image of Cinderella trying to get through enough chores to qualify for attendance at the ball—only in this case McCormick would be scrounging up a set of flame-proof drawers instead of a ball-gown.

He brushed that thought away and went back to his breakfast, which was not as enticing anymore. He glanced over at Sarah, primly finishing her tea and toast. She'd made a pretty valid point. McCormick's first duty was to his chores—both the ones around the estate and helping with the files. He'd agreed to that deal. Sticking to it would be good for his work ethic and moral fiber, no doubt.

And then there was the matter of the danger. McCormick had laughed at him a few days ago when he'd argued, on a purely theoretical basis, that he was responsible for the younger man's safety. Sarah might be exaggerating a little, but why was Mark being handed this invitation in the first place, if not for a serious injury to the driver who'd preceded him on the Denco team?

Sarah was right—it was frivolous for Mark to risk himself by getting back into racing.

Hardcastle froze on that thought. They were only discussing the weekend, weren't they? He frowned. The truth was, as far as he understood it, that success in this upcoming race would probably mean an extended invitation. Mark had admitted as much, hadn't he?

_Who knows what could happen?_

McCormick's own words, and the meaning was wide open. Hardcastle's frown deepened. He pushed his plate away and let out a sigh.

"I'm done, Sarah."

She gave him a sharp, appraising look.

"It was all real good," he assured her.

She stood and started to gather up the plates, then just as suddenly she halted.

"You're thinking of letting him do it, aren't you?" she said, with more certainty than would accompany a simple question.

He was momentarily startled. He glanced over his shoulder. Mark was all the way across the yard, doing some pruning.

"Just thinking, that's all," Hardcastle admitted reluctantly. "I haven't gotten to the 'letting him do it' part, yet."

Sarah pursed her lips momentarily then shut them firmly.

"Go ahead, say it," the judge coaxed. "Talk some sense into me."

"I think it might be too late for _that_." She shook her head. "I don't know. You weren't this way with the others."

"And what way is that?"

"_Indulgent._"

Hardcastle drew his head back slightly in surprise. He cast another quick glance at McCormick and then snapped his eyes back to his housekeeper, one eyebrow up slightly.

"Sarah," he said patiently, "he's putting in ten-hour days here when we're not off working on a case. I haven't been coddling him."

"That's not what I mean, Your Honor," she said primly, "and I believe you know it. You may have been keeping him busy, but you've also been letting him have his say."

"Well, we talk—"

"And the problem is, the boy is very persuasive. Look at him here this morning, with all this racing nonsense."

"It's not exactly 'nonsense'," Hardcastle pointed out. "It's a big business."

"It's a foolish thing to risk your life doing," she retorted. "_His _life."

He noticed her hands were caught in her apron, twisting in it, as though the alternative was fluttering them—an extravagant gesture that would have been completely unlike her.

"He'll keep after you and you'll let him go on about it—that's what I meant about indulgence—and eventually you'll say yes."

"He's a professional driver," he said calmly, as though he'd already said yes and now had to justify it.

The hands escaped, flying up in complete exasperation. Without another word she subdued them to the task of clearing the table.

He watched her scurry off. Sarah wasn't the indulgent type, but she'd developed a habit lately of making lemonade in the mid-afternoon, and routinely produced cookies to keep body and soul together between meals. Hardcastle hadn't said anything, being a secondary beneficiary, but he'd noticed.

He stood there for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder again at the aggravatingly persuasive guy at the far end of the lawn, still beavering away at the pruning job with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Then the judge shook his head and picked up the odds and ends that Sarah hadn't managed in her hasty departure, and followed her up to the kitchen.

"Look," he said backing through the door with both hands full, "what I meant to say was—"

He turned and pulled up short, finding himself addressing an empty room. The first load of dishes had been left on the counter. He added his items to the pile and stood there, arms akimbo. He heard footsteps, coming from further back—the housekeeper's suite off the kitchen. It was Sarah's room, her _domain_, and he could count on one hand then number of times he'd been back there in the past few years, mostly to pick up or deposit her luggage when she went on a trip.

"Sarah?" he asked, "You okay?"

She emerged, nodded once, and headed toward the sink, setting to the scraping with unnecessary vigor.

"I thought you were sick or something," Hardcastle said awkwardly.

She glanced at him sharply and then said, "No, of course not," in a tone that did not leave anything open to doubt.

"Okay," he sighed, "what happened was, a couple days ago, while you were gone, he had a kinda rough day."

Her expression was an unspoken query.

"Nothin' that bad," Hardcastle assured. "He was just feeling a little beat up, that's all. Maybe like he wasn't getting anywhere in life."

"That's nonsense. You and he have done some very valuable work."

"That's what _I_ said, but you know how it is with kids—they can't always see the big picture, and I think maybe his nose was down in the rut. And there he was, thinking about how it was—racing and all that—and wondering if he'd ever get another shot at it."

It didn't look as if Sarah was getting this. He wasn't sure she would, no matter what he said, but he went on, anyway, maybe because he needed to explain it to himself.

"See, he was talking about what it meant to him—racing—and I don't think it was what he said, so much, but how he sounded when he was saying it, and he was so sure he'd never get another chance."

Sarah tapped her foot once; it certainly wasn't impatience, more like precognition. She'd finally caught on to where this was going.

"And I figured he was probably right, but of course I didn't say_ that_."

"Maybe you should have," she said tartly. "A little reality is good for people."

"Trust me—he had plenty of reality last week, with five hundred pounds of cow dung on the end, just to make sure he got the point." Hardcastle cracked a wry smile. "You know the day before he'd wagered the Coyote against a piece of evidence we needed?"

"_Gambling_," she said grimly.

"It's all a gamble, Sarah, _everything_ is. He took a chance on me and I took one on him. He's paid off pretty good so far, I'd say."

There was a long moment before she graced that with a nod. "But—"

He held up one hand and she fell silent.

"Anyway, there he was, talking about how he was a loser—"

Sarah opened her mouth again but didn't get a word out before he'd pushed on.

"—and I told him that was hogwash, but I don't know if he really believed me. So, of course I told him I thought maybe he'd have another chance at it—"

"_Racing_?"

"Someday, I meant—not the day after tomorrow, for Pete's sake—but he thought it wouldn't matter if he did get another chance, on account of our deal."

"Oh, dear," Sarah looked concerned. "What _did_ you say?"

"I sorta promised him."

He heard it come out sounding like something other than what he'd meant. He had only, in fact, promised McCormick that he would _think _about any offers to race that might come along.

He realized, suddenly, that he'd already made up his mind down there at breakfast, probably just a second or two after Mark had said how much it meant to him. It was like one of those Sunday school lithographs from his childhood—the road to perdition was mighty high and fine and a guy didn't seem likely to spin out on it. Indeed, a promise was something that Sarah would definitely understand.

"Oh, _dear_ . . ." she sighed. "Of course you had no idea."

"Well, neither did _he_," Hardcastle said hastily. "Like I said, it was all kind of theoretical."

She seemed to be rapidly reconsidering it all in the light of the new and incontrovertible fact of a promise previously made.

"And he still _asked_ you," she said in some astonishment. "I wouldn't have thought he was—" She'd drawn to a sudden stop, as though the word were eluding her.

"That forgetful?" Hardcastle suggested cautiously.

"So _polite_," she finished, in quiet disbelief.

Hardcastle figured he'd have to accept that, though he hoped she wasn't going to compliment McCormick to his face on his good manners.

And with the narrowest part of the road to perdition successfully navigated, he smiled and nodded his way back to the door, leaving her to her tidying up, and heading out to tell McCormick he'd given the Riverside offer some careful thought.


End file.
